I took my daughter to see Sleeping Beauty at the Opera Bastille on Saturday night. I had reserved the tickets weeks ago, knowing that it’s a good thing to take your daughter to see the ballet and spend quality time together. It’s a good thing to take advantage of all that Paris has to offer. Plus I have this (very challenging because it means I need to leave my house) section on my blog about France and I need to find things to talk about.
As I suspected would be the case, I was extremely anxious at the thought of going. I would be driving into Paris, would need to find a place to park, and I was the only grown-up on the trip, which meant I was 100% responsible. I took a tiny white pill (prescription) to turn the crippling anxiety into something more normal. It worked, but I was still seized with panic every so often, even when there was nothing to provoke it.
It wasn’t the taxi coming straight at me at breakneck speed in the madhouse that constitutes the roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe that caused my heart to beat wildly. No, it was the thought that I might get stuck in traffic and have to go to the bathroom.
My anxiety is not based on logic, and logical reasoning does nothing to alleviate it.
